


The World Turned Upside Down

by TheDarkChocolateLord



Series: Lumenaria [4]
Category: Keeper of the Lost Cities Series - Shannon Messenger
Genre: Angst, Blood, Character Death, Death Threats, Gen, Gethen being evil, Injury, Lumenaria, Violence (approximately canon levels), buildings exploding, he's a ton of fun to write though, seriously gethen is VERY evil
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28490247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkChocolateLord/pseuds/TheDarkChocolateLord
Summary: How did Gethen escape Lumenaria?
Relationships: Brant & Gethen
Series: Lumenaria [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2199858
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	The World Turned Upside Down

Time was meaningless for Gethen.

Trapped in a tiny, glowing room, meals and sleep at irregular intervals, nothing to do but build up mental energy and wait and wish and hope, nothing to do but review his plans for destruction. He occasionally transmitted to the prisoner in the next cell, but he didn't want to sap up his mental energy beyond confirmation that yes, she would escape with them in exchange for her help, and yes, she hated the Council. Really, the second one was almost more important than the first.

Nothing to do until Brant and Ruy arrived, until Fintan turned himself in, until their last telepathic check-in, their last confirmation of the plan.

Until Fintan told him  _ Go! _

Gethen focused his mental energy on the stone in his cell; it splintered like an eggshell, gleaming diamond-encrusted hilt ready for the taking. He snatched it up; the hilt fit well in his hand, the blade balanced and even. In one smooth motion, he focused on the door: one blast of mental energy and a goblin was crushed under the rubble. Too easy.

Fintan, Brant, Ruy, and Vespera burst from their cells in quick succession. Fire and lumenite rained through the air, goblins shrieked and struggled. Ruy snapped his fingers, creating five constantly-shifting force fields, each one enveloping one of their team.

They raced for the stairs; Gethen used his mental energy to destroy pillars, archways, floors, walls, anything he could collapse without making their own escape more dangerous. Goblin enemies struggled under the rubble, bombarded by fire, trapped in the dungeon and unable to escape.

The five of them dashed up the staircase, Fintan at the lead. The pace and spiraling and exertion, mental and physical, made Gethen dizzy, his breath shallow, yet he didn't stop running, didn't stop shattering, didn't stop destroying.

They had to be nearing the main level when Fintan yelled "The staircase won't hold!" 

Looking at his feet, Gethen realized that Fintan was right; the lumenite was crumbling like overbaked ripplefluffs, dust and debris raining down from above. He grabbed Brant's hand and yanked him through the nearest doorway. Above him, Fintan stumbled up the last few steps and onto the next level; below him, Ruy and the prisoner— _ Vespera— _ tumbled down onto the floor below.

"I'm sorry, it won't stay, we're too far apart!"

_ Ruy. _

Gethen's force field flickered—once, twice—then flashed out of existence. A light fixture in the ceiling shook lose, heading for his shoulder; he barely managed to dodge before it smashed into the floor.

_ No.  _

They had to stay together, they had to have force fields, it was part of the plan! He had been plotting for weeks—months, even—and now any wanton destruction might take out an ally, not an enemy; any falling floor could hit Vespera or Ruy, any destruction to the ceiling could cause Fintan to slip and fall.

They had to run.

Down passageways, up staircases, across open rooms, past closed doors. They had to be on the first floor by now, maybe even the second or third—it was hard to tell how deep in the dungeons he'd been—yet they were no closer to the exit.

Gethen spun around the corner, hoping for a window, a door,  _ some  _ way to escape. Nothing but a long hallway, empty except for— _ yes _ —a familiar blond figure in a pale green gown.

The elf who had told him that the sword wasn't going anywhere, who had distracted him when Mr. Forkle almost—almost, but, thank goodness, not quite—breached his mind, who had been helping the Black Swan work with the Council these past few weeks, who was close— _ too  _ close—to the moonlark. 

He  _ had  _ to make her pay.

Gethen raced down the hallway, then the next, Brant at his heels, getting closer and closer with each step. Shattering walls, exploding floors, channeling his energy to his legs in his sprint, but most importantly,  _ he was going to make her pay. _

Ahead of them, Oralie tripped and crashed to the ground.

_ Pathetic. _

Gethen gripped his sword more tightly, gasping for breath. "Give up now, and we'll make it quick."

"Thanks for the offer, but no."

Before Gethen could react, Oralie flung her heels through the air. Gethen wanted to scoff; her aim was probably terrible and she couldn't possibly throw that far and— _ OW! _

One of her heels had hit him right in the eye.

_ Channelling. _

She had turned his own trick on him.

"Lucky throw," he muttered. 

"Yeah, and heels are such a common and dangerous weapon," Brant joked as the two of them broke into a run.

"Shut up," Gethen muttered, yet there wasn't much force in his voice. It was almost like they were back at the hideout again, joking and planning and—no. He  _ had  _ to stay focused if he wanted to get back to the hideout again. 

His head spun and his eye watered and he just wanted to collapse, but he had to keep going, had to keep moving, had to kill her and get himself and Brant out of this castle. He ran faster and faster, shattering walls and columns and floors, anything he could do to bring down this lumenite monstrosity. 

He was getting closer and closer; they had reached a chaos of rubble and crystal and metal. With a flick of his hand, Gethen collapsed the archway ahead. There was no easy way out now; a moment later, he had his sword at Oralie's throat.

_ At last. _

"' _ That sword isn't going anywhere, _ '" he sneered, stepping closer, backing her into a wall. It would be simple enough to end her now, yet he  _ wanted  _ to draw it out,  _ wanted  _ to make her feel trapped and hopeless and helpless. "Any last words?"

He expected whimpering, shuddering, a 'don't kill me', maybe. 

"Not really, it's more like advice."

_ What? _

But if she knew something he didn't, if she had crucial information that could help with his next plot or scheme or even his escape—

_ Make her feel hopeless. _

" _ What? _ You think you can advise me, the leader of the Neverseen, who just pulled off a plot that you foolish Councillors would never have expected–"

"First of all, next time you try to murder me, give me some advance warning so I can make sure I've got decent shoes on. Do you know how hard it is to run in heels?"

_ Really? _

She'd been  _ faking _ ? Just trying to buy herself time?

Like that would stop him. 

"There won't  _ be _ a next time," Gethen snarled, bringing his blade even closer.

"For a very different reason than you're thinking."

Mr. Forkle exploded through a half-crushed doorway, hand outstretched. He flicked his wrist; in a blur of walls and ceiling and floor, Gethen flew backwards through the air, too shocked to scream. He crashed onto the ground, head throbbing and spinning, body battered and bruised. 

Distantly, he heard a rumbling, footsteps, then a crash—and a scream that he knew all too well.

_ Brant. _

His head ached, his vision blurred, yet Gethen forced himself to stand.

Brant was trapped under rubble— _ there was gray gunk on the floor— _ Brant was dead.

Brant was dead, and Mr. Forkle had murdered him.

"You'll pay for this!" Gethen yelled, anger propelling him into a run. Fury pulsed through his veins; his sword sliced in an even arc, hitting Mr. Forkle's gut. Out of the corner of his eye, Oralie's expression crumpled, an explosion of grief and despair and anguish and pain.

_ Let her hurt. _

_ Let her feel what it's like to have your ally taken away. _

_ Let the Council stutter and stumble and reveal their true incompetence to the world. Let this destroy their lies. _

He spun on his heel; he was ten yards from her. Five yards. His skin prickled—he could torment her,  _ kill  _ her, destroy the one person who helped the moonlark work with the Council—

_ BOOM! _

A chunk of fallen balcony swayed in the wind and crashed onto the ground; the far wall crumbled as a jagged crack split the floor in two. Gethen raced back from the crevice; smaller pieces of floor broke off and fell to the level below, shaken loose by reckless gusts of wind. When the shaking stopped, he and Oralie were on opposite sides. 

It would be too easy to levitate over the gap, too easy to stab her, capture her if he wanted—yet when he looked across again, it was Brant's mutilated body that stopped his eyes. No way to give Brant a proper funeral. No way to honor what he'd done, all the sacrifices he'd made for their cause.

With a flick of his hand, Gethen wrapped Brant's body in a tablecloth with telekinesis. That would have to do; the castle jolted again and he almost lost his footing. Levitation would be too unstable, and the floor was crumbling more and more, not to mention the shuddering ceiling and walls. If he wanted to make it out of here—not to mention  _ fully  _ bringing the castle down—he had to go  _ now.  _

"See you next time," he yelled as he raced out of the room. 

The staircase was in shambles, and navigating the debris used up all of his concentration. He had to slow down to make his way through the main floor, between the crumbling building and the disarray of furniture; the fastest way out was to use telekinesis to clear a path to the door. It was slow and unsteady and he twisted his ankle on the last staircase, but at last he emerged into the midday sunlight.

Here he had to be careful; if anyone saw him it meant capture. Luckily enough, the ocean cave they'd chosen as the rendezvous point wasn't far away, and he managed to limp to it unseen. He collapsed against the back wall, wrapping his cloak more tightly around himself to deal with the cold.

The others should be there soon, hopefully with their own stories of success and escape, of destruction and ruin. He didn't know how many lives had been lost, how many goblins or gnomes or world leaders had been killed or injured, and he didn't even care.

He'd  _ done  _ it.

He'd escaped from Lumenaria, killed the leader of the Black Swan, and survived.

Even though Brant was gone, even though Fintan and the others had yet to arrive, his plan had succeeded, he had collapsed the castle, he had finally, finally, shown the world just who was in charge.

  
  



End file.
